


Baby Steps

by PolarGrizz47



Series: Daemon Overwatch AU [9]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Blood, Gore, Hanzo being kind??, M/M, McCree having issues dealing with his prosthetic arm, Memories, prosthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolarGrizz47/pseuds/PolarGrizz47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took him far too long to get used to it. The metal chilling his skin, the scars racing up from his elbow, etched across his skin like lightning burnt into his tanned flesh. He still doesn’t like it, but he’s gotten used to it. Accepted it for what it was.</p><p>At least it was better than nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Daemon Overwatch au!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. This idea has been bubbling in my head for awhile...

It took him far too long to get used to it. The metal chilling his skin, the scars racing up from his elbow, etched across his skin like lightning burnt into his tanned flesh. He still doesn’t like it, but he’s gotten used to it. Accepted it for what it was.

At least it was better than nothing.

River still walks with a slight limp, something not noticeable _unless_ you’d known her since a child. Unless you’ve known here like McCree has.

For a long time, he’d hidden the shiny metal into his serape, mechanical fingers barely peeking out from the red, frayed material. He still doesn’t waltz about with it out in the open. The serape seemed to be glued to his person, and when he slept, he shoved his prosthetic under the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at it, rest his cheek against it.

It’s unnatural. It’s strange and foreign to his body. Sometimes he swears that his fingers hesitate to wrap around his coffee cup, or to buckle up his belt. He was glad that he’d been right-handed, as he was unsure if he’d been able to wield Peacekeeper with any sense of _security_ thanks to his unwanted amputation.

He still shies away from people asking about it, touching it, or even looking at him. It’s awkward to even touch River with it, unable to feel her soft fur beneath the metallic fingers. Mercy had oftentimes offered to upgrade his arm, to make it lighter, smoother, _better._ McCree doesn’t know, though, as his chest aches and his throat feels tight at the very thought of going under the knife again.

He’d only admitted to River that he was _scared,_ something the outlaw hated to be.

Goddamnit, he was a cowboy, fearless, a vigilante. He shouldn’t be frightened of something that still haunted him from his past… he should’ve moved on by now.

But sometimes the sight of the limb in the early morning is too much. The strange clasp around his elbow that the arm hooked into was unnerving when it was empty, waiting to be filled like a beast’s open maw.

It dredges up all sorts of painful and panicked memories, blood staining his vision and his mind in his worst _nightmares_ and sometimes unexpectedly in even his gentlest dreams.

Even if it had happened years ago, it’s still so _vivid_ in his mind.

When he closes his eyes sometimes when it’s too quiet, or River is too far away, he finds himself pushed right back there, panic seizing him once more like a lamb on the way to the slaughter.

_“Jesse, stay with us,” The doctor orders, voice firm and strict as she pushes the writhing cowboy onto the table. McCree kicks out stubbornly, shouting curses and howls of pain before he feels a mask being shoved over his mouth. “Just relax, we’ve got you.”_

_Dark wild eyes connect with Mercy’s own blue ones, the doctor’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she begins to cut away his clothing._

_He still struggles even as the strange gas is turned on, strapped to his face as his good hand weakly paws around, bloodloss and panic making the outlaw sluggish and dangerous. He wants to hold his weapon in his hand, wants to feel the comfort of its weight in his gloved palm, but he only moans out in agony as she unbuckles his belt and lets the familiar weight of his gear slide to the floor uncaringly._

_It hits him suddenly that somebody is holding his chest down, preventing him from escaping. McCree glares in confusion, looking at his chest and seeing only a large furry paw. Winston, he thinks automatically, letting his head thunk back against the operating table as he feels the gas he’s breathing in starting to wind its way into his body._

_“Is it salvageable?” Winston is asking, and Jesse blinks his eyes lazily, trying to garnish attention, but when he opens his mouth all that tumbles out is a pained groan._

_The outlaw can see Angela shaking her head, staring hard at his other arm before hovering over his face to check his frantic vitals with her fingertips. “I’m not sure. But I must stop the blood flow. Winston, please -” Her words fade off into random sounds, darkness lapping at his vision as Jesse inhales the gas more deeply, his panic ebbing away._

_Before the sweet embrace of sleep, McCree tries to lift his hands up, tries to grab at them, and from the corner of his vision, he can see his mangled left arm._

_Or, what was left of the red, crumpled mess._

_Somewhere, River is outright yipping and howling with agony, the sound echoing oddly in the room. That is the last thing Jesse hears before his eyes fall closed._

The outlaw shakes his head free of those thoughts, pulling the cigar from his lips as he leans onto the balconies railing. His dark gaze watches the smoke twirling into the air, his eyes half closed and lips open as he taps the cigar’s excess ash over the edge. He’s tired, but he can’t sleep.

River leans heavily into his legs, the poor coyote exhausted after today’s training. Genji kept pushing them, annoying Hanzo and making the assassin push back even harder. McCree had struggled to keep up with the fast running and climbing assassins.

Eventually, he’d just made his own routes to avoid climbing the _ridiculous_ obstacles altogether. Whatever. An assassin had to be resourceful, right? No sense wasting all that energy on climbing about like a monkey - _ha_ \- when you could just as easily walk around it.

He only smokes half of it before he’s crushing the fire out and placing it safely into his belt. The outlaw still hadn’t changed or showered from their earlier activities. His muscles were sore, his right forearm especially. Unsurprisingly, his left hand and arm feel very little.

Artificial. _Fake._

His lips curl bitterly and River gives a lazy whine, looking up at him with worried olive eyes. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

Jesse looks down at her, sighing softly. “Ya know me too well.”

“Hm,” The coyote nuzzles into his side, flicking her ears. “It’s my job to do that.”

They stand in silence for a little while longer, McCree resting his gloved hand atop her head and thumbing at her fuzzy ears while they stare at the stars. The outlaw nearly jumps out of his skin and over the balcony when he feels a soft touch landing on his shoulder, hand wrapping around the Peacekeeper before Hanzo’s voice reaches his ears.

“You’re still awake? You should be sleeping,” The assassin murmurs, resting his chin on McCree’s shoulder as he stands up on his toes. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

The taller man reaches up to twine his fingers with the ones gripping at his shoulder, heaving a heavy sigh. “Yeah, partner… I was just on my way up there. Just,” He shakes his head, looking at the sky, “Saying goodnight to the stars, ya know?”

Hanzo’s lips frown knowingly, and he smoothes a hand over McCree’s chest, holding him close. “They aren’t going anywhere, Jesse. Come to bed.”

McCree squeezes his other hand, sucking in a deep, calming breath before nodding in agreement and stepping away from the railing.

-:-

Hanzo is no fool. He knows that McCree still suffers, as several members do. Sometimes, he even falls into a self-loathing type of pity, tracing the designs on his legs and longing for the past.

He wonders how often Genji must feel that, and the bitter, acidic feeling of _guilt_ burns in his throat.

He wishes to help those he cares about, but he’s also shunned by his younger brother, forgiven or not. Hanzo will never forgive himself for what the clan had _lured_ him into doing.

How foolish.

But perhaps he can offer McCree some comfort, some aid in the cowboy’s lowest moments.

He starts small, baby steps. Waits until McCree stops flinching every time he brushes the taller man’s shiny prosthetic.

Works up until he can hold Jesse’s hand willingly, the man looking conflicted until it ebbs away. He shows the outlaw that this artificial limb didn’t define him, didn’t change who he really was.

After all, that was how he adapted to his own changes.

“There is nothing wrong with it,” He notes quietly while McCree joins him for an afternoon moment of meditation. The younger man opens his eyes and his mechanical hand clenches tighter around Hanzo’s own, slim organic one. “Nothing wrong with _any_ of you.”

“Tell that to my gray hairs,” McCree mutters, shifting uncomfortably until Hanzo’s lips quirk into a smile and the assassin opens his own dark eyes.

The older man gently returns the hand squeeze, “I am much grayer than you, Jesse.”

“Yeah,” McCree says fondly, his eyes on the sight of their conjoined hands, looking more at ease for a few precious moments before he drops his gaze worriedly.

Baby steps, Hanzo keeps telling himself, counting every little victory.

-:-

McCree looks good in black and white. The suit blazer hugs his form nicely, even if he picks at it and keeps eyeing the large hat and his serape longingly from the safe spot on the edge of the bed. “Why do we gotta go to this stupid thing?” He mutters, hands shaking as he tries to adjust the white, crisp bowtie around his neck. The outlaw feels out of place, forced into a false skin. “Winston and the other’s got this cat in the bag - they don’t need us, do they?” His complaining halts as he finally sees Hanzo stepping out of the master bathroom for a moment.

The smaller man looks downright _delectable_ in the formal dress wear, the combination of white and black making his dark eyes stand out even more and the tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve look even more enticing. Jesse seriously contemplates telling Winston to go to hell just to take his sweet time undressing and revealing Hanzo.

The assassin grabs at his hair tie, brushing his hair up with half of his attention split between McCree and getting ready. “This is a diplomatic event. They want to thank Overwatch for its hard, if not _illegal_ work.” He says with a grunt, tying his hair up quickly and pulling the short ponytail back a bit more. Slim fingers brush at his bangs, pushing them to one side as he gathers up some gel onto his fingertips to reinforce them.

McCree doesn’t even bother with his hair, merely letting it hang shaggily around his face as he turns to pick up another small ribbon. River grumbles sleepily from her spot on the bed, tail wagging lazily as her other half bends at the knees to adjust the ribbon about her neck, adding a splash of white amongst her tan fur.

Hanzo fusses with his appearance in the mirror a while longer, adjusting the Overwatch logo pinned to the breast lapel of his jacket before he runs his fingers nervously over the black bowtie around his throat. He feels out of place in this strange attire, too warm, too enclosed. He could bear it for a few hours, though.

An assassin was adaptive after all.

Stepping out fully, he tutts as he appraises McCree’s form. “Come here,” He huffs, crooking a finger towards his lover as he moves to their nightstand. The cowboy lumbers over, grumbling at the lack of spurs on his black dress shoes as he comes to stand beside the slighter man. Hanzo only roots about for a moment before procuring a dark hair tie, the elastic band is usually worn on weekends or lazy days. Motioning towards the bed, he hums approvingly as McCree seats himself on there easily.

The assassin’s touch is light and loving as he gathers up McCree’s shaggy hair, separating his bangs from the rest of the ponytail as he draws it back. With a quick twine of his fingers, the outlaw feels the tie digging into his soft locks and the style holding tight. He reaches up to pat at the strange little tail atop his head before Hanzo swats at his hands and fusses with his hair for another moment, McCree just staring at his focused expression dreamily until Hanzo deems him presentable.

Jesse stands slowly, grumbling once more as Hanzo reaches out to adjust his bowtie. “You look good enough _to eat,_ partner,” he notes gently, catching the older man’s hand and lifting it up to his lips for a smooth kiss.

Hanzo feels his cheeks heat before he rolls his eyes, “Flattery will not save you from this event,” He declares while gently pulling his hand free.

McCree groans, shoulders slouching as he watches Hanzo tie a large, dark ribbon about Aiko’s neck, the dragon’s rumbling echoing in the large room. Both daemons were comfortable in the silence, allowing the two men to focus on getting dolled up for the evening.

River lifts her head as she spots Jesse glancing towards a pair of black, leather gloves on the edge of the dresser. He used to wear them often, the leather worn and comfortable, warm even. She knows what he’s thinking, debating.

Should he tug on the gloves to hide his hand?

Hanzo turns slightly to see McCree tugging on one glove, encasing his metal hand in the warm, supple leather. He says nothing while Jesse appraises himself in the mirror, looking at his hand critically. The cowboy frowns, shaking his head and muttering in Spanish under his breath before plucking the material off his fingers and shakily setting the glove onto the dresser.

Baby steps, Hanzo repeats to himself as he comes up to hug McCree from behind. “You look wonderful, Jesse.” He makes a point to grab at the outlaw’s prosthetic, flesh fingers twining against smooth, metal ones.

McCree looks at their two reflections in the mirror, his lips eventually parting into a wide grin. The grip conjoined with Hanzo’s hand grows stronger as Jesse says, “That’s mighty kind of you. Not too bad yourself, darlin’.”

The assassin presses a soft kiss to the back of McCree’s neck, his chest feeling warm and light. Happy, Hanzo felt so very happy.

The two leave the bedroom hand in hand, Aiko floating in front of them and River prancing about at their left. McCree sounds different without his spurs, smells different without the lingering cigar smoke, but Hanzo finds the change strangely _charming._

The cowboy cleaned up nice.

Jesse is still holding his hand as they head out towards the landing pads, the helicopters primed for a short ride over to the high-security ball. “Thank you,” McCree suddenly blurts as he helps Hanzo into the aircraft.

The assassin pauses before smiling and tugging the outlaw into the helicopter by that shiny hand, warmed by his touch. He presses his lips to McCree’s in an answer before the two take a seat, the younger man still smiling goofily and getting a bit red in the face as Hanzo brushes up against him.

Slow and steady wins the race, Hanzo knows this is true.

One day, McCree will be at peace with his limb. It’d take time, coaxing and trust.

Baby steps.

But Hanzo always was a very patient person.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor McCree... It's just interesting to see how far his serape actually drapes across his body. Had to write this! :'D
> 
> Hope you liked it. Their formal wear was inspired by this image: http://www.shirtsmyway.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/Mens-Black-Tie-Attire.jpg
> 
> Comments and such are wonderful to receive!!
> 
> Working on another Reaper76 one next, hopefully! :'0


End file.
